Procrastination
First Posted: 03 25 2013
He lay on his stomach with his head on his right arm. His left he had tucked at his side, almost instinctively protective of it in sleep. So different to when he was awake and active without an apparent regard for his own safety. It was the same dichotomy that she noticed now, in how innocent his face appeared, free of the silly smile or its dark opposite of haunted solemnity which flashed in his eyes.
She watched a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth and found her own cheeks twitching in response. She shut it down as fast as it had appeared and gritted her teeth together. How did he manage, even unconsciously, to provoke such a response in her? She did not even like the man. She sighed in frustration and rested her chin on the palm of her hand. He was a job, and if she were to be honest with herself, a significant improvement on being stuck in the office every day. But on the balance of things the aggravation he caused her – with a single half smile, she shot him a furious glare - was the equivalent of a day's worth of report writing, though without the satisfaction of being able to file the report.
She felt her stomach churn uncomfortably as she became aware that she was comparing a living breathing person to a report. Her uncle had given her a piece of advice when she had joined the Insurance company, 'as dull as the paperwork is, remember each represents a heart with hopes and dreams as alive as yours are'. It kept returning to her when she wished to be rid of the sheer pettiness and avarice of people. She had partly taken this assignment to put a face to the vast amounts of paperwork he produced for the company. He was a man, as alarming in his exuberance and idiocy as he was in his contradictory show of strength and accuracy. She knew now it was not dumb luck as she had first thought, there was something almost, well, calculated about it. And that meant intelligence. Her eyes flickered to his face relaxed in sleep, and happily dreaming. She grimaced again and deliberately looked away from his face, his smile had grown and she could see a touch of the irksome silliness there.
What thought had that smile derailed from its track? Oh, yes, his intelligence. Intelligence? She gaped at the man in fury, him? She ground her teeth together; she could not give him that accolade. But neither was she willing to allow him blind luck, as no one survived as long as he had by luck alone. Her eyes flitted to his back covered in the scars he had tried to hide once. From the patterns of the pale scar tissue, he had either found the worst small town doctor to stitch them, or the wounds had been atrocious. She bit at her knuckles absently her heart suddenly aching at the end of that thought. What had he said about them? 'Not meant for the tender eyes of ladies,' or something along those lines. That made her ache even worse. He had meant it as a casual disarming tactic, but it spoke more to her, as if he had once wanted someone to look at him and to see him despite them. It made her wish that there was some way to tell him that she saw beyond them without him taking it in the wrong way. She tasted blood in her mouth and sat up in shock as she realised she had bitten her finger to the quick. She was pitying the man!
She sucked her finger and hugged her other arm around herself. Her heart beat oddly in her chest and she felt light headed. She stood up and walked softly from the room, her hand over her mouth as she tried to contain all the confusion she felt inside. She must be tired, and the only reason she had sneaked into his room was to gain some perspective so as to remember the face behind the report she was writing. She sighed dejectedly to herself; she could not lie any longer, she was purely procrastinating on actually writing the report.
He opened his eyes as she left the room, and then turned his gaze to at the ceiling, as if sadly entreating the air to return her to her silent vigil over him. Her presence was comforting in the quiet times where a modicum of safety prevailed, more than comforting, if he were truthful. But he refused to let that thought to go further, in danger that comfort would turn to agony, and if he could he would put off that anguish. He needed to leave them, but not yet. He heard the sound of the typewriter in the adjoining room and closed his eyes again, listening for the rhythmic taps that always occurred in the same order, four, the jerk of the space, three, another jerk, eight. His name.